


i dwell in possibility

by scrapbullet



Series: forever is composed of nows [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, F/F, F/M, Multi, Sansa gets a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1867218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>("I had thought to <i>choose</i>," she doesn't say, "I had thought to offer myself to you both and lose my maidenhead in a manner befitting my own desires, and not in the bed of a man that neither loves nor cares for me, nor I for him.")</p><p>(...)</p><p>Whatever happens now, she has chosen, and it shall ever be hers, and hers alone, to bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i dwell in possibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poemwithnorhyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/gifts).



Choice is a commodity not oft given to those of Sansa's ilk. It is nothing more than an illusion, a facade to hide what is ultimately _truth_ ; that each and every aspect of her, still short, mortal life is in the hands of those deemed far more _capable_ ; so-called noblemen who, other than her now - _dear, beloved, as stoic and unwavering as the Wall itself_ \- deceased, traitorous father, do not have her best interests in mind.

How long has she been kept captive in this den of monsters? How long have they looked upon her with disgust and disdain, thinking her nothing more than a trifle, an _amusement to pass the time_ , their eyes glittering with undisguised malice - or, perhaps worse, _nonchalance_ \- as they witness her pain and humiliation at the orders of the King himself. Too long. Too long, but there is no escape; here, there is always a little dove willing to tell tales.

No, Sansa has no _choice_ , but as a highborn Lady of the North she has it in her to endure. Indeed, it is even to be expected that, as the daughter of a traitor to the Crown, she is to be beset with her own assortment of punishments.

(Even if, deep in her heart of hearts, she weeps for them; for her family. She weeps for them and fears for them, but if she is to survive she must play this game of theirs - _this game of thrones_ \- and she must _win it_.)

And then, on a day where the sun shone down merrily on the Capital, the Prince of Dorne came to Kings Landing, hand-in-hand with his baseborn lover, and offered to Sansa Stark's eyes, without a single word, the other side of a well-worn coin. 

Here is a Prince and a Bastard who, above all else, are equal. Not to others, no, that's simply the way of the world - but to one another? To one another they are the same, and their passion and feeling is one shared, not one forced upon them by a domineering figure in paternal guise. Ellaria Sand is as besotted with her paramour as the Red Viper is with her, and deep down in her gut Sansa feels the very first stirrings of what can only be described as envy. It lingers in her thoughts during waking hours and keeps her from her slumber at night, heavy with jealousy and shame for, truly, is she still so foolish? Has she truly learned nothing from Joffrey?

Regardless, they call to her; the strange and the beautifully exotic; olive-skinned and dark-haired; sensuous; and ever does she think of them intertwined; together, or with the women that Lord Baelish employs.

But still she yearns, and, as always, there are eyes that _see_.

Preparations for the royal wedding capture the attentions of all but one slip of a girl, draped in a cloak of Stark grey. The cloth, old and worn and much too short, is Arya's; the fabric unloved and uncared for but still smelling faintly of the woodsy soaps preferred in the North, but it is enough for Sansa to slip by the servants in the midst of their hustle and bustle. She goes where her feet take her - to that most famous of whore houses - but it is within an alley that she is found, cornered, her heat beating hard and fast in her chest as wide, calloused hands grip her shoulders and pull her _back_.

Fear has her trembling in his grip - for it is definitely a man, his chest wide and muscled against her back - but propriety forces her head to tip up as he tugs down the hood of her cloak, and a voice sighs against her ear in what can only be amusement. 

"These streets are no place for a Lady," Oberyn Martell says, and, as he turns Sansa in his arms to better scrutinise her, his amusement gives with to a frown; no doubt glimpsing something unappealing. "Especially one that is not watchful of her surroundings. They make easy targets for those with dark intentions."

Sansa can only swallow thickly, adjusting the fall of her cloak to hide the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "You have been following me." She states, and as the terror begins to subside she allows herself to straighten, projecting forth those lessons she learned as a child at her mother's knee. "You know, then."

(Young and naive as she is, Sansa has worn her lust and longing openly on her face.)

Oberyn smiles and its rakishness causes warmth to lance through Sansa's gut, settling deep. "We have seen you watching, yes, though I am intrigued as to why you are heading towards a whorehouse and not to your husbands' chambers. If you intend to erase us from your thoughts, sweet Lady, you are in the wrong place." 

Her face flushes, and his laughter, low and rumbling, is more predatory than even the worst of the Lions.

Raising an imperious eyebrow Sansa only lifts one slender shoulder - she has been caught, and she may as well own her desire. "To be truthful, Your Grace, I had thought to find you both."

("I had thought to _choose_ ," she doesn't say, "I had thought to offer myself to you both and lose my maidenhead in a manner befitting my own desires, and not in the bed of a man that neither loves nor cares for me, nor I for him.")

The expression that passes over the Prince's face is one simultaneously calculating and pondering, a subtle motion that lingers not for long, passing in the blink of an eye as he cups her cheek, the rough pad of his thumb tracing the delicate line of her nose. 

"Did you, now," Oberyn says, sotto voce, and as he takes her hand in his Sansa is filled to bursting with notions of sheer _possibility_.

Whatever happens now, she has chosen, and it shall ever be hers, and hers alone, to bear.


End file.
